"Let's get her in the shower! It’ll help."
I was standing in a hospital gown, digging nails into my husband’s forearms.
There was a nurse holding my stomach. Another one was fussing with the IV drip and Strep B antibiotics, trying to get the cords of liquid out of the way. Our doula, Kerri, was pressing into my lower back with all of her strength, combatting the ungodly phenomenon that is back labor.
Another contraction arrived, and the whole team tensed and pushed and breathed encouragement while I moaned like a wounded animal. I was on Pitocin, a drug that jumpstarts labor, so the contractions were coming nearly every other minute.
Suddenly, I was stripped and thrown into the labor and delivery room's shower. "Leave your socks on; we'll get you new ones," Kerri said.
"Don't get her hair wet!" a nurse shouted.
But where was my epidural? How had I gotten myself into this painful pickle?
The baby had decided to park himself in my uterus for an extra two weeks, so a few days prior to this uncomfortable moment, it had finally been determined that I’d need to be induced. The day of the Big Event, Ryan and I ordered Chinese food (sesame chicken) and rolled up to the hospital like we were checking into a hotel. On the anticlimactic drive over, I asked Ryan if he wanted me to fake scream so that we could have a classic pregnant-in-a-New York-cab movie moment. He politely declined my offer.
After a restless night of oral induction pills that had only moved me an additional centimeter, my labor stalled out the following morning. I hadn't felt any real contractions, even though the monitor suggested I was having strong ones. Was I superwoman? Was I so incredibly strong that I didn’t even feel the pains of birth? Was I… a true legend?
Turns out, no.
The next stage of the induction process was to break my “bag of waters,” as all the birthing books call it. Ryan and I wondered if I should get the epidural before doing so, but there was a tiny part of me that wanted to feel a real contraction. I’d experienced nothing substantial—the pressure in my stomach was less than a period cramp. So we proceeded without drugs and I’d get the epidural later in the day.
(You can now probably guess how I got myself into that painful pickle.)
The bag of waters had acted like a pad, keeping contraction pain at bay. But, after my midwife stuck what looked like a knitting needle up into my body and ripped it, a pressure began to build. Everyone left the room assuming it would take some time before I’d request drugs. After all, I’d been happily bouncing on a birthing ball and gabbing with the nurses two minutes prior.
“Epidural! Epidural!” I told Ryan, not long after the room had emptied. But there would be no quick drug fix. The anesthesiologist was busy—and my back labor began.
Back labor is a pain I have never experienced before. It felt like every contraction was closer to snapping my spine in two. I don’t know how to properly describe the feeling much more than that because I mentally detached from my body. My soul ran down the hospital hallway to the elevator, out the front door, and toward the La Bagel Delight across the street, leaving my bloated, writhing body on the bathroom floor.
About an hour and half after we broke my water, the anesthesiologist arrived and I finally got my epidural. There was a brief moment of peace. I slid into a happy, drugged mindset. I remember looking out the window and realizing it was Valentine’s Day. Maybe someone was buying flowers for their partner at the bodega over there?
But then, the worse kind of chaos ensued. Moments after I'd caught my breath, our baby’s heart rate plummeted. Tons of nurses briskly piled into the room; they all seemed to be talking at once. I knew something was wrong but couldn’t understand what.
I stared at Ryan.
The room was full of beeping sounds.
There was a lot of movement.
I was quickly flipped onto my right side.
A nurse turned off the Pitocin.
Ryan stared at me.
“Come back, baby,” I prayed silently, squeezing the sheets with one hand and Ryan with the other.
And then, as quickly as it had all started, the ordeal ended with a consistent beep, beep, beep coming from the monitors. His heart rate resumed at a normal pace and the whole room breathed a sigh of relief.
The rest of the labor was blissfully uneventful until it was time to push. There were some concerns that the baby was too big, and that we might need a C-section. But my doula remained optimistic that we could do this—that I could do this. She gave me little pep talks as we progressed. Our team of caregivers was incredible and I felt confident with these women by my side. The lights were low, and the music was loud. My upbeat birthing playlist blasted from a speaker by my right ear and we puuuushed. And we puuuushed.
Ryan prayed aloud for a safe delivery. He never took his eyes off of me, and in that moment I felt closer to him than I ever had before. My doctor readjusted me. A random wave of nausea hit, and I leaned over to throw up in a bag toward my left. In doing so, I’d accidentally ripped out my epidural. No one told me what had happened—but their faces all said the same thing: “Better make this quick!” So we puuuushed. And we puuuushed.
I’d been in this last phase of labor for about an hour and a half. There was an exciting energy in the room. We were all feeding off of each other’s adrenaline. It was a birthday party, and the one we were celebrating was about to make his entrance—the team could see him! We were so close. So I pushed once more, holding my breath and straining every muscle from head to toe.
I heard excited voices and a loud cry.
He had arrived.
Christopher Ryan Nugent, Jr. was born at 1:31 am on February 15. He weighed a whopping 9 pounds 6 ounces and was 21.5 inches long. After a quick exam, he was placed on my chest and looked me in the eyes.
"I love you, Baby," I said.
Very soon after, Ryan and I would be sent to a crowded room for the night and not sleep a wink as we breathed through our masks hoping COVID wasn't lurking nearby. That week, the Olympics would come to an end and Russia would heartlessly invade Ukraine. Images of carnage would fill my screen as I nursed in the middle of the night. Two months later our subway station would be the site of a mass shooting. With this little soul in my care, the world took on a new level of treachery. It was always there—but it felt heavier as I watched the chaos from my small apartment, and tried to soothe my child to sleep.
But in those few moments, right after Christopher was born, we looked each other in the eye and time paused just enough for me to promise I'd simply do my best to show him the beauty of life. And I knew he'd do the same for me.
“For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity.”
Notes for Inquiring NYC Parents:
We gave birth at NewYork-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn and had a great experience. I loved all of the nurses and doctors. The private labor and delivery rooms are spacious with showers and toilets (no bath). The have birthing balls on hand. You can dim the lights and play music. Our only complaint was that there were not a lot of reclining chairs for partners, so Ryan had a tough night during the induction. But a lovely member of the staff (who’d actually taught our birthing class) found one for us the next day.
After the birth, we had to stay in a shared room with another couple and their baby. Ryan and I squeezed into the same hospital bed. This was not ideal but typical in NYC. Before the pandemic, you could pay for a private room but in February of 2022 those rooms were being used for COVID-positive parents during the end of New York’s Omicron surge. Call your hospital ahead of time to know the latest policy.
Our doula was incredible; she really helped us out in stressful moments and always made me feel heard. And, crucially, she works at the hospital where I gave birth. So she knew the team, knew the policies, and always had the information we needed. You can get more info on Kerri Evers’ services, here.
For our hospital stay, we brought drinks in a cooler, snacks, several sizes of baby clothes, pillows, an extension cord, chargers, a portable speaker, a small sound machine, hair ties, magazines, headphones, toiletries, and I bought my own hospital gowns so I’d be comfortable. Diapers and wipes were provided for the baby. Mesh underwear, pads, and Dermoplast were provided for me, as well as shampoo, lotion, and conditioner.
We created a birth plan for our nurses that introduced us as a couple and listed our preferences/hopes for the delivery process.
For me, a birthing playlist was a must. In fact, I had several (thanks, Leiv!).
When we got home from the hospital, Christopher had a hard time latching. Our doula introduced us to a lactation consult who was incredibly helpful via Zoom. You can find Francie Webb’s information, here.
